


My Doomed Children

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Gen, Post - Order of the Phoenix, Rape/Non-con References, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-30
Updated: 2005-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They were Slytherins, they were supposed to be the rotten apples, they were expected to be as they were. No one gave them a second thought." After the final battle, Snape ponders the fate of his Slytherin students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Doomed Children

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first fanfics (and one of my first stories written in English) from way back in 2005.

The heat of the battle has long since abated. The injured have been brought into the castle, before whose gates the final battle has taken place this night. The Dark Lord is no more; defeated by Harry Potter, the one he failed to kill one too many times. He will not come back.

Dawn is rising grey and sickly over the trees, lighting the devastated scenery the slaughter has left behind. For nothing else it was - a slaughter, bloody and barbarous until the end.

I am alone, kneeling on the blood-stained ground, eyes closed, hands clutching the slender frame that is resting in my arms, unable to blind out the voices in my head. They command me to look, and finally, I obey. I am the only living one amidst the dead, but inside I do not differ from them, inside I am just as cold and lifeless as they could ever be.

The first corpse that comes into my sight is the one of Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, once the most powerful wizard alive. My mentor, my friend. Wearing one of those ridiculously bright coloured robes of his, although I cannot tell the colour now, since the fabric is soaked with blood.

Next to him lies Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, my colleague, stern and loyal until the end. Her hair has finally escaped the bun and is hanging untidily in her face.

Remus Lupin, who returned to teach Defence a year ago, the only werewolf on the light side. Naked, caught by death right after transforming back to his human form.

Tonks, who I saw fall with her hair peroxide blonde - now it is crimson, and the colour will darken quickly.

Moody – not even his magical eye can be everywhere, and therefore it did not catch the Killing Curse cast at him from behind while he was fighting three Death Eaters at the same time.

Neville Longbottom, who died in all the glory of true, stupid Gryffindor bravery I would never have credited him with, defending his injured girlfriend, the Lovegood girl.

Ginny Weasley, slain at the hands of a laughing Lucius Malfoy.

Hannah Abbott. Terry Boot. Seamus Finnigan. Ernie Macmillan. Lavender Brown. Mandy Brocklehurst. Zacharias Smith. Colin Creevey. The Patil twins.

Only a few out of a long list of fallen teachers, Aurors, Order members, seventh, sixth- and even fifth-years.

Such a waste of life, provoked by a madman and his equally mad followers. No one could stay untouched by this, and neither am I. And yet, their deaths have not created the all-consuming void that is filling evey fibre of my being, not their broken eyes staring at me, not their burnt skin, twisted limbs, curdled blood.

The papers will be full of their praises. They died defending our freedom, defending the light, defending everything that is worth living for, and therefore their deaths will not be in vain. That is what will be said of them. They will be heroes. Their families and friends will mourn them and cry by their graves. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten.

My eyes travel further, over fallen hooded shapes, shredded black cloaks, shattered masks. Familiar faces. Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Macnair, Parkinson, Crabbe, to mention only a few. They got what they deserved.

More black cloaks, more broken masks, more familiar faces. It is they who make me cold, make me numb, make me once again ask myself the same question that has haunted me for the last years, ever since I became Head of Slytherin House.

Could I have saved them?

Theodore Nott, thrown against a tree by a hex, spine broken, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. A quiet young man who never talked about home, had no friends and melted into the shadows whenever possible, painfully reminding me of myself at his age.

Pansy Parkinson, lying limply in a puddle of mud, thighs spread in bitter irony. During the last four years, she slept with every Slytherin who wanted her. Maybe because they were kinder and more gentle than her father’s fellow Death Eaters, whom he regularly gave her to. But maybe they were not.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, inseparable even in death, their stout figures only inches away from one another.

Blaise Zabini. Miles Bletchley. Tracey Davis. Daphne Greengrass. Terence Higgs. Others I taught during the years and now recognise between the fallen ones. Some, like Millicent Bulstrode and Adrian Pucey, have survived and were brought to Azkaban by the remaining Aurors right after the battle.

Some were old enough to have some memories of the dark time, the younger imbibed the legend of the Dark Lord from their infancy; their parents made sure of it. They were contaminated from birth, raised in beliefs of pureblood predominance and might is right. When the Dark Lord rose to power for the second time, they were ready to be made his. And made his they were, heart, body and soul. They were bred to be used as his tools, to serve, obey and die at his command. Without hesitance, without doubt. And so they did.

Could I have saved them?

I had excuses for not even trying, and no one ever blamed me.

Had my espionage become public knowledge after the Dark Lord's first defeat, I would have been in mortal danger from the remaining Death Eaters. I could not reveal myself.

Had I tried to convince them to join the light side after the Dark Lord had returned, I would have risked blowing my cover. I could have been killed, and our cause would have suffered severely, losing its most useful source of information.

I had excuses, and no one ever blamed me, no one will ever do so. No one but I myself and their lifeless eyes.

Finally, I look down at the limp form cradled in my arms. I look into dead grey eyes, wide with pain, shock, disbelief. The usually well groomed blond hair is tousled and clotted with blood. The ashen face is even paler now, adding an unearthly look to the elegant features.

Draco Malfoy.

He adored his father, who had been, now and then, the Dark Lord’s right-hand-man, and no wonder he worshipped the vicious, saturnine godhood he was raised to believe in, like all the others were. He was a proud young man, sure of himself, sure of his goals. One of the inner circle, one to stand by the Dark Lord’s side, as much an equal to him as anyone would ever be allowed to become. That was what he was destined to be, that was what he was promised by his master in person.

He was shouting the Killing Curse, wand aiming at the youngest male Weasley, when my curse hit and slew him. I cannot detach my gaze from his eyes, eyes that seem to scream at me, plead with me, beg me to answer their question.

Why did I betray them, why did I turn my back on everything they knew?

It is because I knew something else, something they never were allowed to learn, something no one ever taught them. Because I, who was responsible for them, never did so. Instead, I watched. All those years, I watched. Watched as they were conditioned, corrupted, perverted.

Did anybody else even notice? Did anybody even care? They were Slytherins, they were supposed to be the rotten apples, they were expected to be as they were. No one gave them a second thought.

At first, I was angry. Angry with the world and the hypocrites they all were, in my eyes. Hypocrites for not seeing the truth, for regaling on their decency and nobility and condemning those who did not have the chances they had.

All too soon I realised that I was not better at all, and as my self-contempt grew, as I kept watching what I did not dare to prevent, and as I hid behind lame excuses year after year, slowly and continuously the other emotions withdrew and I became embittered and cold.

Now they are dead or will be wasting away in Azkaban, and it is idle to wonder over what I could - what I should - have done. Nevertheless, I cannot stop doing so, here amidst corpses and blood, amidst the remainders of my failing.

The Ministry will proclaim their inhumanity, and the public will remember them as Death Eaters, murderers, monsters. And is it not true? They tortured the helpless, murdered the innocent, laughed at everything good and noble. Their families and friends are dead or imprisoned as well, and no one will cry by their graves. No one will see their sacrifice. No one will understand that their sacrifice was not only death but also life, a life no one would want for their children - and yet they fail to see that they condemn children who did not have a choice.

Or did they have one? They could have betrayed their parents, their families, their friends. They could have turned their back on everything they knew, everything they believed, everything they were, could have exposed themselves to the mercy of people who despised them for who their parents were and what they were raised to be. Who of these who demand this would have done so themselves?

Those are words of bitterness, but they are hollow, for not even bitterness is left in me. Still staring into Draco Malfoy’s broken eyes, I know they are more animate than mine, which mirror an empty soul.

As I remain nothing but an empty shell, who will cry for my doomed children?

I feel someone kneel down next to me, and an arm slides around my shoulders. I do not react. If this is meant to be a gesture of comfort, it fails in its effects on me.

“Professor Snape?” Ron Weasley’s voice. From the corner of my eyes, I can see his legs as he advances and kneels down in front of me.

“I’ll take him to the castle,” he says, and makes an attempt to lift the body out of my arms. I do not let go and keep staring into accusing grey eyes.

A hand comes into my field of vision and tentatively approaches the pale face. In a slow, almost gentle motion, it brushes a strand of silver-blond hair out of the dead boy’s forehead. Then it wanders to the wide, lifeless eyes and closes the eyelids.

For some moments, Draco seems to me as though he is sleeping. For some moments, he looks peaceful and innocent. For some moments, he looks like the young man he should have become. Then reality again forces itself upon me, and with poignant exactness I notice the clotting blood in his hair, the pained expression on the pale face, the thin trace of crimson that is originating from the corner of his mouth, leading all the way down over the chin and the neck, disappearing in the collar of his robe.

“Professor Snape,” Weasley says again, and it is the gentleness in his voice that finally makes me look up to him. After experiencing hell, how can he still feel, how can he still express so much emotion in only two words?

I am surprised that in his eyes I do not find any of the hatred which used to linger there before, nor scorn, nor contempt. At any other time I would hate him for looking at me so sympathetically, but right now I am beyond caring, beyond pride and self-esteem. I follow his gaze when it returns to Draco, and I am no longer surprised that even now his expression does not change. Once again, he brushes a strand of hair out of his old enemy’s waxen face.

“I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

I do no longer resist, and he slowly unclenches my numb fingers, since they will not obey me and I am unable to loosen their grip on the corpse. Carefully, he gathers the fragile form in his arms and rises to his feet, and I wish for nothing more than to be able to scream at the loss of contact, at the emptiness that now does not only fill my heart and mind but also my arms. I do not lift my eyes from the ground as he walks away.

Long minutes are filled with silence. I do not move, nor does the person next to me, nor the arm around me. I probably would have stayed like that forever; I do not know.

“Professor?”

Slowly, I raise my eyes, only to look into green eyes, full of everything I have been deprived of during the years. Hope, love, and compassion, as well as anger, fear, grief.

Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. Celebration, saviour, shining light in this dark time. Destined for being noble, destined for being unsoiled, destined for being everything they were not, were never allowed to be. I used to hate him for this. For everything he stood for. Resistance. Freedom. Hope. All the things they never had.

Staring into his eyes, I now realise that I cannot hate him any longer. My last remaining emotion, the last drop of the bitter potion of hate that has been seething in me for the last seven years, has vaporised during the past hours, has been expended by the all-consuming effort of fighting those who I have failed to save.

He turns his head away from me and slowly lets his eyes wander over the battlefield, taking in every horrid detail: corpses lying everywhere, thrown down like broken dolls; the blood-stained ground; broken bones, poking out of pierced flesh; unseeing eyes; mouths opened to cry out in never uttered agony.

My eyes wander along with his, travel over fallen Slytherin children once again, each of whom I knew, taught, and mourned as they were absorbed by the darkness they were born to be a part of.

When his gaze returns to me, his eyes are full of unshed tears. There is an expression of sadness in those emerald depths that I recognise as the one that I used to see in my mirror, that I know to be the pain at being forced to impassively watch someone take the road to ruin. It is understanding, and more than that.

“They never had a chance,” he whispers, and while the words still linger on his lips, the first tears are falling.

Only moments later, I find myself again holding someone, and I hold on tightly, for in the aftermath of this war there is nothing else left for me, in me. All I can do is cling to the young man in my arms, feel his fierce sobs which should shake me as well, hear his screams of loss which should escape not only his but also my throat, until it is shredded and forced to silence. And while he is crying not only his own but also the tears I do not have, I feel something small, a seed, grow in the void inside me, filling it just a little.

It is hope, I realise. Hope that not only I will remember them for what they truly were. The doomed children of the wizarding world.


End file.
